


Sin Verguënza

by SleepyPete



Category: Triple Frontier (2019)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Closeted Character, Coming Out, F/M, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Violence, Grief/Mourning, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Military Homophobia, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reference To Suicidal Thoughts, Slow Burn, Some Fluff, Unofficial Sequel, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, super slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:47:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24869392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SleepyPete/pseuds/SleepyPete
Summary: Nowhere to go, knees beyond repair, and one less best friend with nothing to show for it, Pope is desperate. Desperate enough to decide he's going to make things right. He's going to get that money.He just needs some help. Not everyone. Just one. The one he needed in the first place. The person he came to first:Ironhead.
Relationships: Santiago "Pope" Garcia/OFC, Santiago "Pope" Garcia/OMC, Santiago "Pope" Garcia/William "Ironhead" Miller, Santiago "Pope" Garcia/Yovanna
Comments: 3
Kudos: 16





	Sin Verguënza

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, I only really came on to check if someone decided to do a continuation of where the movie left off. I didn't really find that (maybe it exists and I'm just silly), but I didn't have the motivation to write anything for this fandom. 
> 
> And then I read "We were warriors" by copper__head and I fell in love with this pairing, found the motivation, and the idea for this fic was born.
> 
> If you haven't read it already, I cannot recommend that fanfic enough. It's phenomenal. 
> 
> Just as a note, Spanish is my second language and it's been noted to be a bit rusty by most of my family (I speak Spanglish like a pro, though). So, if the Spanish is wrong or looks weird/incorrect please tell me so I can fix it!

_It's been six months_. This is the only thought echoing in the head of Santiago “Pope” Garcia while calloused knuckles rapped against the smooth hardwood of the door in front of him. Six months since he planned the heist. Six months since he convinced his former teammates to join him. Six months since he killed Lorea. Six months since they stole over $250 million dollars. Six months since they lost it. Six months since they lost Redfly.

 _Tom. Since they lost Tom_ , Santiago thought as he stared at the dark wooden door in front of him, lips tugging down in a half-formed frown. Sometimes, he found it easier to just think of him as Redfly. Just another lost brother-in-arms. But he wasn’t. He didn’t die for his country, for duty, for freedom. He didn’t die for any of the oaths he swore to uphold until his dying breath. Tom died for greed, for selfishness, for himself…because of Pope. The thought still left a bitter taste in his mouth; and even six months later it’s an unpleasant truth that he has trouble reconciling.

“Redfly died trying to help his family,” Pope had argued to himself, muttering into the shadows, alone in a cheap motel room so buried in the _barrios_ in Paraguay. “Molly’s smart. She’ll never have to worry about money again and Tess—”

That’s where it usually fell apart because for all Santiago could justify Redfly’s estranged wife, being able to move on he just couldn’t do the same when he thought of Tess. Redfly was never Redfly for Tess, he wasn’t even Tom. He was just “Dad”. Tess had lost her father. She had lost her father because of Santiago and no amount of money was ever going to make that okay. Every thought of Tom, every memory, was now a reminder that because of him, because of his plan, one of his best friend’s daughter will have to continue her life without the love or support of her father. Tom had survived over twenty years of service in Delta Force. He had survived Afghanistan, Iraq, Cuba, Mexico, Colombia, Uganda, and countless other countries that they operated in throughout the years. He surived everything, despite a few close calls, he had survived. He had been able to retire. Then, Santiago brought him into his plan, he convinced him, and he died for it. Even though it was for money, he went for Santiago’s mission, his goal, his plan, and ultimately because of him; which made it his fault. This knowledge kept him up most night. It’s something he has to live with for his remaining years for every single day and everything else that comes with it: the guilt, the regret, and the shame. All of it, deserved.

When he was young, his Mamá used to tell him he was _sin verguënza._

“ _Un malcriado creció para ser_ ,” She would scold, waving a _chancleta_ in his face. “ _El único hijo mío sin verguënza_.”

A spoiled brat you grew up to be, my only son without shame. Without shame. _Sin verguënza._ But like most words in Spanish, the direct meaning is lost in translation to English. _Sin verguënza_ is used to indicate that someone should feel ashamed. The fact that they don’t feel shame is shameful and appalling. _Sin verguënza._

Pope had rolled his eyes. He hadn’t cared what she thought. He loved his mother, God rest her soul, but he wasn’t _sin verguënza_. He was a straight-A student, he spoke English as well as he did Spanish, he didn’t get high on drugs like his brothers or dealt drugs like his scumbag father. They were _sin verguënzas_ , not him. He still remembers arguing with his mother between the slaps of the _chancleta_ , unwilling to back down. His head still held up high. He remembers the look in her eyes when he said that: disappointment. That look hurt more than anything physical she could do to him. That look filled him with rage, sadness, and resentment. So much resentment. For years, he always held that against her. For looking him like that when he was the only son that didn’t fall into crime. When he was the only son that took care of her when she got older. When he became her only son after the rest died. When he visited regularly and showered her with gifts, a time when they were closer than they’d been their entire lives. But even on her deathbed, he still wasn’t able to forgive her for that look.

Yet as Santiago looked at the door again, a sigh fluttering across his lips and a hard knot of guilt beginning to settle deeply in the pit of his stomach, he wondered that maybe Mamá was right. He was _sin verguënza._ He may not have snorted cocaine, injected heroin, or sold either—but he believed he was better than all of them. He believed himself to be above reproach, which imbued him with an unwarranted confidence and faith that whatever he was doing was right—even when it wasn’t.

Memories of Redfly—Tom—flood into his head once again. Steeling himself with a deep breath, Santiago forced the unwanted feelings, laughs, tears, **all of it** out of his mind—his raised fist hovering over the door once more.

* * *

It’s been one month.

One month since he planned the heist. One month since they robbed Lorea. One month since he killed Lorea. One month since he had meaningful communication with anyone. One month since Redfly died.

“Tom,” Santiago chided himself, eyes closed. “One month since Tom died.”

Just one month completely on his own and he had developed a rather bad habit of talking to himself in the darkness of motel rooms. Pope stayed in a different motel each night. Each motel was at least twenty miles away from the other. The distance always varied depending on his gut. Sometimes he ended up in different countries across the border, sometimes it was just another city, and sometimes—on the bad days, the days where his gut wouldn’t stop lurching—he wouldn’t sleep.

He’d stay shrouded in the shadows of a local bar or café with his back to the wall, near at least two exits. Fingers twitching over his gun, Pope’s eyes searched across every patron because any one of them could have been paid off by the cartels. Any one of them could be a combatant. An enemy.

Chalk it up to paranoia, but he had no desire to be treated to an acid bath from Las Zetas or dismemberment from Sinaloa. He remembered what happened to his father back in Guatemala. That photo sent to his family has always been more than enough of a reminder. Paranoia was reasonable caution here.

As the only one left in Latin America, Santiago had taken it upon himself to ensure that the cartels never found him or his team. Just because they all went back to the United States, they thought themselves safe; they thought that trouble wouldn’t follow them back.

“Naïve and stupid,” Pope thought darkly, eyes fixating briefly on a particularly tattoo-laden man. Tattoos didn’t mean much in the United States, but in South America most of them were signs of cartel affiliation. Of danger imprinted on skin. However this time, Pope’s caution was unnecessary. The tattooed man was quickly welcomed warmly by a group of nearby men and women, all of them very drunk but familiar in a way that only old friends could be. From the way they spoke Spanish, with slight slurs and common usage of slang, Pope identified them as childhood friends from the same _barrio_. Not a threat. Pope’s eyes moved on, scanning the next patron. Sometimes biases were beneficial to have. Naivete and stupidity were dangerous in their world, and often went hand in hand. Those were two things that men like them could never have or risk their own lives.

Two things that Redfl-

Tom. Two things that Tom becam—

Santiago stopped that particular train of thought, raising the lager to his lips and taking a deep swig of the crisp, tarty liquid. He drained the cup, setting it aside without so much of a thud. It would take a lot more to get him drunk, but his brain welcomed the comfortable familiarity of beer and the relief it brings after a long night. There’s a lot of long nights in Santiago’s future right now. But none of them can afford the luxury of beer and drunken fun.

The soldier’s fingers began tapping an erratic rhythm against the surprisingly smooth tabletop. Despite the alertness in his eyes and the energy almost buzzing throughout his body, a lion right before the pounce, Pope felt his thoughts drift off again. Or, maybe they left because they’d know he would have their backs here. Maybe, even after Redfly’s death, they still trusted him to cover for them. Santiago closed his eyes at that comforting thought. It was nice to think, nice to imagine that all of them still trusted him. All of them except Redfly. All of them except Tom.

Santiago swallowed the guilt down, feeling it turn to bile in his throat. His chair scraped loudly against a cheap imitation of vinyl plank floors while he rose to settle his tab at the bar. He needed to get going. Tomorrow will be an early day with one of his intelligence contacts in the DEA. He needs his knowledge and, luckily, he still has a significant amount of his personal savings tucked away. The operation may have gone straight to hell, but he’s going to make damn sure that no demons come crawling out after them. No one else is dying because of him.

* * *

It’s been two months.

Two months since he planned the heist. Two months since he killed Lorea. Two months since they lost the money. Two months since Redfly died.

“Tom. Tom. Tom,” Santiago muttered, wiping his mouth clean of beer froth with the back of his hand.

The bottle dangled loosely from his hand, just above the freshly vacuumed carpeted floor of one of the nicer motel rooms Santiago has stayed in. He doesn’t set it down, bringing the bottle up for another swig. Tonight can be a night for drunken, dreamless sleep. Santiago felt like he had earned it.

Pope had been methodical and vigilant in covering their tracks. In regards to counter-intelligence and misinformation, there were very few active in Latin America who equaled him. But when he put his mind to it, Pope’s skill was unparalleled. And he had been nothing but focused the past two months. He did everything from creating false leads and planting trails that would lead to dead ends, greasing the right palms of corrupt government officials to give misinformation, exchanged information to trade it for favors, and blackmailing former assets to erase any connection he and his teammates had to Lorea. His last meeting with an asset went to shit. He was coked up, with wild eyes and an even louder mouth.

“Get away from me, _diablo!_ _Vete, vete pa’l carajo_!” His asset had screamed at him, white powder caked across his face like leftover sugar from powdered donuts.

“Just like my brothers,” Santiago had mused.

When he was young and stupid, they used to tell him that they were eating donuts. He had demanded for them to share the donuts, but was kicked out of the room. He was too young for their “special donuts”. So, he told Mamá. And Mamá beat them. Then, his brothers beat him. And that was the day he found out that his brothers were truly _sin verguënza_. They were junkies. Not even dealers like their father. Just addicts. Victims.

Eventually, the police found the corpses of his brother’s in a drug bust, cold and riddled with bullet holes. They had told his mother it may have possibly been due to their involvement with some of the mid-ranking members of the cartels, but both he and his mother knew the truth. Their deaths were too clean for the cartel to be behind it, too simple, too easy. After Santiago had seen the photos of his father, he knew that the cartels—regardless of which—never settled for simple when they could make a spectacle out of it. It was just fight between junkies. A fight that turned deadly.

The thought stayed in his mind as a great cover story while he emptied half of his clip into his former asset’s—now deceased asset’s—chest. When the police discovered his body a few days later, that’s exactly what they thought. Just another dead junkie fighting over drugs.

It was a bit of trouble, an asset turning into a loose end but Santiago was able to still get what he needed by paying off some of the local kids to spread the rumors. While he had paid them for that task, he earned their silence after helping one of the younger ones defend himself against his abusive father. They didn’t tell him, that’d be too obvious, but he knew. It was the look in their eyes, still hard, still weary, but no longer filled with distrust—just respect. Kids from the _barrio_ never forgot things like that. Their silence was golden and reliable. Santiago had learned the meaning of that look when he was young and he learned to recognize it in others as he got older—a skill he never took for granted.

It’s a look he’d recognized in many fellow soldiers when he first joined the Army. It was a look he recognized in the Miller brothers when he was handpicked for Delta Force. Immediately thoughts of either of the Millers brought back memories of Catfish and Redfly. His team. His true brothers. His family.

Santiago closed his eyes, gingerly stretching his legs on the bed to avoid hurting his knees. He winced when they still cracked audibly, despite his best efforts. Looking around the empty room with a sigh, Santiago glanced at the near empty beer bottle and lifted it up to his lips for one last chug. He needed a better distraction.

* * *

It’s been three months.

Three months since he planned the heist. Three months since he lost the money. Three months since Redfly died. Three months since he last saw Yovanna. Three months since he last had sex. Well, that last part wasn’t true anymore.

Santiago glanced absently at the faint shape of the silhouette leaving his bed: a handsome, dark-skinned man with flawless skin. He’s gorgeous, but that wasn’t the reason that Santiago took him to bed. He was just easy. And Santiago needed to relieve some tension.

It was a well-kept secret that Santiago dabbled in both sexes. He preferred women. God, he preferred women. All soft curves, supple skin, and yielding yet firm bodies that always molded to fit his. From the scent of their perfume to the comfort of their embrace, Santiago loved women. His eyes traced over the man’s form, focused on his back while the soon-to-be forgotten lover wrote out contact information that would never be used. The man glanced at Santiago over his shoulder, a full beard distinguishing his face and highlighting the whiteness of his teeth. Santiago grinned back, winking slightly: a non-verbal promise that they’d see each other again. He’d always been bad at keeping his promises. But as he leaned back against the coarse sheets and beaten pillows of the bed, drowsy and completely satiated, Santiago remembered why he really loved men. All rough angles and hardened bodies, even the flabbier ones lacked the grace and finesse of a woman. There was just something about kissing a man, fucking a man, making love to a man that was just so different. Rougher. Harder. Almost animalistic. With women, Santiago took his time. He loved giving and seeing their expressions slowly unravel while they got closer and closer to their climax. With men, the objective was different. Every action he took, everything he did was done with the intention of getting the other man to submit.

One of Pope’s greatest pleasures was taking a man apart. To see a man come apart at the seams, transforming from a tough, hardened, pinnacle of imagined strength to a blubbering, whimpering mess underneath his ministrations was the greatest power trip. Nothing else compared. Unfortunately, he didn’t get to do this often. Most of the men he would like to do this to were straight. The image of dusty blonde hair and blue eyes flitted across his mind’s eye, vanishing as quickly as it appeared.

Or, just off limits.

So more often than not, Santiago just used men to relieve stress whenever women weren’t around—which, in their line of work was almost a constant fact. Catfish knew his secret, catching him in act with one of the assets he was running in Chile. Santiago expected awkwardness or even hostility but Frankie had brushed it off ease. He simply raised an eyebrow, a smile already spreading across his lips.

“Mamí warned me the ugly ones always get the girls, but the men too?” Frankie had tsked, a sharp click of his tongue. “ _Amigo_ , what do you say to them? _Yo necesito saber_." 

Santiago had laughed it off, but he was always grateful for Frankie’s acceptance. It brought them closer, closer than anyone else on the team. While he’d die for every one of them, there was always an unspoken understanding between him and Frankie. An acceptance that made Santiago love him more. He’d always go the extra mile for Catfish. No one else knew, at least not to his knowledge. If Redfly knew, he didn't say anything. Santiago always had a suspicion that he knew, but never saw the need to point it out. The “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy was repealed towards the last few years of their shared service. It didn’t make sense for old soldiers like them to make any changes. That was for the next generation. What they had worked. They didn’t need to change it. The Millers didn't know. Benny asked him for tips for picking up girls so much, Santiago wondered if Ironhead left out a missing father when he told him about their past. And Ironhead… Ironhead rarely talked about romance after his engagement broke off, regardless of who it involved. The same flash of crinkled blue eyes and a well-groomed blonde beard flits across his mind again. This time it doesn’t vanish quickly.

William “Ironhead” Miller.

Pope feels his jaw set: off-limits. Pushing thoughts of Ironhead from his head, Pope wondered why he didn’t go for a woman this time. It’s not like he couldn’t have. He’s under no illusion that he isn’t handsome. He knows his effect on women and even some men. But as the thought left his head, Pope felt the corners of his mouth tug down. He knew the reason why. It may have not been something he liked admitting to himself, but that didn’t make it any less true.

Not all women loved him back. And many took advantage of him.

Trust was always too easy for Santiago to give to women. Trust that was too quickly given, too blindly placed, and too easy to manipulate. One particular scar, a thick, ropy line of tissue along his side, is a permanent reminder of Santiago’s greatest weakness. A keepsake from a FARC guerilla assassin who came the closest to killing him than anyone else ever had. She would have killed him too if it wasn't for Redfly finding him in the nick of time.

He still remembers her name, Lupita Colón-Sanchez. The last vivid memory he has of her was Redfly throwing her off Santiago’s neck, her knife still buried deeply in his ribs, and out of a two-story window. Then, everything went black.

When he awoke, Redfly—Tom—was watching over him with sad eyes, his mouth pressed into a tight, grim line. He told him that they never found the body. It was matter-of-fact, almost plainly spoken but Santiago read in between lines. He understood the silent “I’m sorry” that accompanied it. The apology for failing to eliminate a threat, a threat that almost killed him.

An unnecessary apology because it wasn’t Tom’s fault, it was his own lapse in judgment that almost cost him his life. Normally, he would try to eliminate the threat at a different time, usually when they least expected it. He hated leaving loose ends. Leaving threats. But every time he thought of those dead eyes, the motivation leaves his body as quickly as it appeared. Pope just steers far away from that area of Colombia and prays he never sees those eyes again. She was the last woman he’d been in a serious relationship with before Yovanna.

So, it came as no surprise that when Tom had commented on a pretty girl always being involved when they were scouting Lorea’s compound, he knew it wasn't just exasperation at his antics, but a warning. It was warning to keep their team safe from her. It was a warning that Redfly would do what he had to if Pope didn't. Still, Santiago had almost rolled his eyes when Tom said that. He had learned his lesson. Yovanna was one of the most intelligent and courageous people he ever met, man or woman. But she was a survivor, not a soldier. She wasn't a killer. At the end of the day, she was just a woman who was pulling all of the stops to protecting her family. 

Suddenly, warmth bloomed in his chest over thoughts of Yovanna, woman who risked it all to save her family—her little brother. It wasn’t her looks, but the resolve in her eyes, the determination, that made Santiago fall for her. And just like that, for the first time in three months, Santiago felt a deep longing for another person. For Yovanna. Relief, thick and warm, surged into his body after the realization.

He finally knew what was next for him. He had done his due diligence. He had eliminated any trace that could connect him or anyone he loved to the heist three months ago. There was nothing for him in Latin America anymore. It was time he finally went to Australia.

* * *

It’s been four months.

For the first time in four months, his mind was clear of any thought. His expression blank, Santiago watched a beautiful, smiling woman throw back her head in laughter. Her hand rising to brush raven-black hair away from vibrant cinnamon skin, a gentle curve of a bright smile painted across soft lips. Soft, chapped lips that Santiago remembered kissing for hours on end. Soft, chapped lips that were now captured in a kiss by another man, her face angled away from Santiago, a blanket of hair shielding her from his gaze. Yovanna had moved on. 

Santiago felt his chest tighten at the sight, something lurching down in his stomach, a pain that he hadn’t felt since his mother died. Since Tom died. A pain he didn’t expect he’d be able to feel again. Heartbreak. He had been wrong. He’d been wrong a lot lately, it seems.

Pope decided to stay in Australia for a month, regardless. Despite how painful it was to see her happy, he felt he had a duty to make sure she was safe too. He couldn’t allow her to get caught by the cartels, not when she already risked so much to make it out. Not when she had already won.

Pope started with her new boyfriend first, running a thorough background check that was more exhaustive than it needed to be. Hell, he even passed his name up to a few of his contacts to check out on him. He found nothing. No criminal record, no drug connection, not even a parking ticket. He was a teacher during the week and a pastor on Sundays. He wasn’t a rich man, not by any means, but Yovanna never needed or wanted a rich man. Especially not with the money she made out with for her part in the raid. Yovanna had finally found the man she deserved: a non-violent man who wasn’t connected to any of the corrupt miasma she had escaped with her brother, a good man that she could feel safe with. None of the demons from her past would follow her here.

None except Santiago. And sometimes, when she was relaxing outside on her balcony overlooking the gorgeous view of the coast or coming out of church with her brother, waiting for the pastor, Yovanna’s gaze would wander as if looking deeper into her surroundings. Santiago liked to imagine that she was still looking for him, waiting even. But those moments never lasted long enough. Her gaze would usually be broken by the kindly pastor or her brother and when Yovanna smiled at them, Santiago could see she already had her happiness.

And he wasn’t included in that.

Santiago could respect that. He could love that. He just didn't think that it would hurt as much as it did. It may have shredded what was left of Santiago's heart to see her happy with another, but it also have him a sense of peace. She would be okay. Santiago would be okay.

* * *

It’s been five months.

Santiago thought he would be okay. But his mind is still blank. There’s a tightness in his chest that never went away, a pit still lurching in his stomach. Pope turned his gaze outside the window where a glittering sun descended softly into the skyline that sliced across the sky like a streak of ink against yellow-orange flames. Suddenly, it dawned on him that he doesn’t know where he is at all. In fact, he doesn’t really remember anything that happened the past month after he left Australia. If anything happened after he left Australia. Santiago glances at the bottles of beer littered around his bed, mostly empty. Some of them still dribbling the piss-colored liquid onto the floor.

“Fuck.” Pope breathed out, his voice thick and raspy, the words sound scratchy as if they crashed several times in Santiago’s throat before they finally escaped.

It may have been the first time he’s spoken in a month. He didn’t know. A white-hot burst of pain shot across both of his knees as Pope tried to stand, failing to prevent the grimace that consumed his face.

“Motherfu- _hijo de puta madre malparido_ ,” Santiago swore, his eyes wide-open and roaming the room in a baleful glare for his suitcase.

He always kept knee braces in his suitcases and while most times they barely did anything, his knees needed the support right now. Whatever he was doing the past month was not kind to his already fucked-up knees. He spotted his suitcase, thrown haphazardly in the corner of the room closest to the door.

“Stupid. Sloppy,” Santiago thought to himself with disgust, shaking his head while carefully lifting himself up from the bed. “Snap out of it, man”.

He kept his vest, his passports, and his burner phone containing the locations of his stash houses and contact list in that suitcase. With no way to smuggle guns in the airport, those were the only things that kept him from getting killed. The phone especially contained the unlisted contact information for his friends. His family. A shiver ran down Santiago’s spine upon realizing the extent of his own carelessness, he cursed his lack of caution, a guaranteed way to get himself and those he loved killed. Like Tom did.

Pope squashed that thought. He can’t entertain it right now. Not when his knees felt like they’re disintegrating from the inside. Like a crippled penguin, probably more pathetic, Santiago limps towards his suitcase, grateful for hardwood floors instead of carpet that allow his socked feet to slide a bit further without trouble. Then, his knees hit the floor as he bent down and the searing pain returns, much worse than before, while his bones cracked underneath the pressure. It’s like a power drill delving into both his kneecaps. The ex-Delta Force operator let out a groan while leaning over the suitcase, his hands grasping what he can of the stiff polyester in front of him. Santiago inhaled a shaky breath. Pope exhaled, eyes focused. The pain still present, but bearable for now.

Ripping the zipper across metal teeth with yank, Pope rummaged through the contents of his luggage without care for anything except his phone, his passports, and his knee braces. Shirts, jeans, socks, and underwear fly through the air, forgotten and uncared for the mess they’ll form. He found the phone almost immediately, most of the tension leaving his body with the slow release of breath he didn’t know he was holding. He didn’t fuck up. No one was compromised because of him. The passports are next, tucked between several pairs of boxers. He won’t be trapped wherever he is now, at least. The knee braces must be buried underneath the all of his cloth—

Pope’s mind came to an abrupt halt when his hands touched something different from everything else. Small. Thin. Fragile. A slip of paper. With slightly trembling hands, Santiago confirmed what he already knew it was. It’s the piece of paper that Will gave him before they went their separate ways.

The coordinates to the rest of the $250 million dollars they had to abandon in some godforsaken ravine in Peru. It’s been five months. Five months since they abandoned the money. Five months since he got Tom killed. Five months since Will had given him the paper. Five months since he had thought about the lost money.

A familiar, whiskey smooth voice echoed in his head—a deep, almost drawl: _Maybe we can go do something good with it one day._

And for the first time in five months, Santiago felt the faint stirring of an idea to do something good. Another mission, another plan. Another chance. He could hear his mother’s voice.

 _Sin verguënza_.

* * *

It’s been six months.

Six months since he lost the money. Six months since he got Tom killed. Six months since he’s seen his friends. Six months since he’s seen Will. Santiago had spent the majority of the plane ride thinking about what he was going to say. How he was going to pitch it to him. How this time was going to be different. How it was going to work out. Pope had a whole speech planned out. But, when the hardwood door finally creaked open, flashing a glimpse of sleep-tousled blonde hair and light blue eyes, much more awake then they should be at this time, Santiago felt the entire speech leak out of his jet-lagged brain—being replaced by a deep feeling of dread in his stomach. Does Will still trust him? Is their friendship still intact? Can either survive another one of Pope’s plans? The crinkle of a smile halfway hidden in Will’s beard answered the first question.

“Pope.”

It’s uttered in a deep, drawly voice that slightly pops the “P” on his nickname. In one sentence, Santiago remembered how much he missed hearing Will’s voice. It was like whiskey: warm, steady, and strong. The embrace Will pulled him into, during the pitch-black of some unholy hour past midnight, answers the second question. Cheek pressed against to the side of Will’s head, he breathes in Will’s scent. Dried sweat, soap, cedarwood? Peppercorn? Both? Something earthy and nice: a scent that Santiago has always identified with just Will.

Releasing each other with a clap on the back. Santiago’s hands fell loosely onto his sides, finding refuge in empty pockets. One of Will’s hands remained on Santiago’s shoulder, forcing him to swallow the burgeoning hope he felt in the pit of his stomach. The third question hasn’t been answered.

“Come on in, man,” Will told him softly, sleep still present in his voice. “Let’s get out of the damn cold.”

The hand on Santiago’s shoulder guided him inside.

* * *

With a flick of his wrist, Ironhead illuminated the entire space of his condo with a bright, white light from above. Santiago squinted, eyes creasing deeply like he was back in Guatemala, forever blinking hot sun from his eyes.

It’s a spacious condo. Or, maybe it just seemed spacious due to the lack of actual interior decoration. Which isn’t to say there weren’t decorations, just that what’s there isn’t a lot. There are a few potted plants (“Succulents,” Santiago mused. “The plants you can neglect.”), followed by a moderately-sized television and a well-worn dark blue couch.

Santiago’s eyes soon land on the item that Will clearly put the most time into: the bookshelf. It stretches alongside the wall to Santiago’s immediate left as soon as he stepped in the condo. Teeming with books of all kinds ranging from Pulitzer-Prize winning novels to non-fiction accounts of both World Wars, Vietnam, the Cold War, the Bosnian-Serb War, and honestly whatever war that Santiago may have forgotten. He found out two years into their friendship that Ironhead was a bit of a history buff, sometimes he’d forget but the bookshelf overflowing in front of him is hard to ignore. It was clearly chosen more for function than style, stretching across the entirety of the wall with an impressive storage capacity. Other than that, it’s a plain black color, but well-kept and free of any dust.

Actually, everything was incredibly tidy and clean.

“Some things never change,” Santiago thought fondly, the beginnings of a smile tracing across his lips, his eyes flitting over Will’s retreating form into the kitchen.

Ironhead himself wore a green hoodie with the words “Gen 5” inscribed across the front: his current place of employment. And because Ironhead is a boring, predictable man, he went to sleep wearing matching “Gen 5” pajama pants. And white socks, which Santiago knew he slept in. Normally, that wouldn’t be a problem. It’s approaching December and it gets much colder in North America than it ever did in South America. If anything, wearing socks to sleep absolutely made sense. However, Santiago knew that Will never changed his sleep attire based on the weather. Because somehow, he was always cold.

“Still sleeping with socks on?” Santiago grinned at him, stopping right before his boots touched carpeted floor and leaning against the wall.

Ironhead pokes his head from behind the fridge door, an eyebrow arched up at Santiago’s meerkat-like grin.

“My feet get cold,” Will explained matter-of-factly treating it as a serious question instead of the jab that both of them knew it to be. He turned his attention back to the fridge. “You want a beer?”

Santiago almost has to stifle a laugh. Even when Ironhead was in training, the man always slept with the thickest comforter and in as many layers as he could. He caught shit from everyone in their squad from it, but always shrugged it off. If it wasn’t for his complete lack of complaints in the field about being cold, he may have gotten a nickname from it. Thank God that never happened. Ironhead fit him much, much better. Although after one very cold night that prompted Will cocooning himself in crappy, threadbare blankets, Santiago did seriously ask Benny about it—if Will had some type of anemia. Benny had just grinned at him.

“Nah man, Will’s just fuckin’ weird like that.” He had laughed loudly, so loudly that Santiago almost shushed him in fear he’d wake the others up. “Unless he’s sweating, he’s cold. Drove our mom nuts, man.”

Santiago blinked, his mind coming back to the present, lips moving to respond to Will’s question before too much time lapsed.

“Yeah, sure. I’ll take one.”

“Stop standing in the doorway then, man.”

Stifling a chuckle, Santiago slipped off his own shoes, he doesn’t plan on staying but he knows Will well enough that anything Santiago did to dirty the tidy condo would be met with a slight frown of disapproval. And if there was anything Santiago didn’t like seeing, it was that goddamn frown. It was like that look his mother gave him. It drove him crazy.

Padding over to the small kitchen counter, Santiago received the beer Will gave him with a smile and a quiet thank-you. The two former soldiers brought their bottles together in a soft clink, both taking a healthy swig. Well, a pseudo-healthy swig on Santiago’s part. He’s trying to avoid another lapse into the alcoholism that made him lose an entire month’s time. Too reckless, too careless, too stupid.

Will set the bottle down with a clink, his eyes watching Santiago: patient, but expectant. Santiago always believed that if it wasn’t for Redfly’s—Tom’s—tactical genius, Ironhead would have been their squad leader. Cool under pressure, charismatic, honorable, and reliable. He would have been a damn fine leader. But, it was probably for the best he didn’t, with Benny on the team it would have influenced the team dynamic—it was always unpleasant whenever the brothers fought, even if they made up quickly their fights left a feeling of discomfort and guilt in the air that always lingered for a day or two. That was just from general tension within the team, Santiago couldn’t imagine how bad it could have been with rank involved. Still, even in retirement, even with struggling with his own personal demons, his anger issues, his PTSD, his broken engagement, Will was aware of it all. Aware and constantly seeking to be better, to conquer, overcome and control just like any objective.

He’s the best of them. It’s why Santiago came to him the first time. It’s why he’s coming to him again before anyone else. Those just aren’t the words that leave his mouth at the moment.

“How have you been?” Santiago asked, it sounds lame even to his ears but he’s genuinely curious. It’s been six months since he’s seen Will. A lot of things can change.

“I’m okay,” Will answered with a half-smile. “You?”

Or nothing can change. Will has always thrived on routine and structure.

“Eh, I’ve stayed busy. Covering our tracks, wrapping up the loose ends, you know how it is.” Santiago shrugged, diminishing the true toll the past six months had taken on him in a single movement. “There’s nothing that’s gonna connect us to Lorea. We’re clean.”

“You’re a good man.” Will grunts lowly, there’s a level of warmth to his tone that Santiago believes is appreciation. Or maybe it’s just the sleepiness.

He should bring up why he’s here, but for some reason he can’t. He knows that after he does, there’s a high possibility Ironhead would kick him out and that would be the end of their friendship. The last time he’d see Will again. So he doesn’t. Instead, he asked the questions that have been plaguing his mind the past six months. All of them.

“How is everyone? How’s Catfish? How’s your brother? How’s Redfl—Tom’s family? How are they doing?” Santiago’s voice hitched at the mention of Tom, too obvious to ignore but Will does anyways. A small act of mercy on his part that Santiago is thankful for.

“Everyone’s okay. Catfish found a job-“

“The charges got dropped? He’s flying again?” Santiago can’t help but interrupt, excitement already leaking into his voice for his friend.

“No, he was convicted. Sentenced to six months but got out after two for good behavior. He’s been working at a storage dock now. Loading boxes." Will frowned as the words left his mouth, eyebrows furrowed down as he glances at Santiago. “I’m sorry, Pope.”

There’s no need for an apology, but Will knew how close they are. Finding out that his best friend, the best pilot he ever knew, was working a job so far beneath his skillset felt like punch to the gut. At the same time, the knowledge strengthened his resolve to convince Ironhead.

“It’s okay,” Santiago replied dully. “And everyone else?”

Picking up on the tone change, Will answered Santiago’s question like he was reading off a list, formal and clear.

“Catfish is still making enough money to support his family. Combined with his wife’s income, they’re getting by. They have a newborn daughter. She’s quite cute. I can show you pictures in the morning.”

Santiago almost smiled as he nodded, his heart excited to see his new niece but his mind focusing on the last sentence. Potential leverage to come back a second time to convince Will, if necessary. Will takes his nod as permission to go forward.

“Benny’s doing well. He met someone about two weeks after we came back, an Israeli girl who teaches Krav Maga about a half-hour away.” Will sipped on his beer, the corners of his lips tugging down. “When she found out that Benny knew Krav Maga too, well, he’s become the second instructor there. It’s a steady job.”

“Nice, good for Benny.” Santiago smiled, he knew how much the older Miller secretly worried for his brother’s future after the military.

  
“Mhm. A few months after that, she found out he was an MMA fighter. And apparently, her uncle is good friends with one of the sparring partners for the heavyweight boxing champion, Apollo Creed.” Will shrugged lightly, setting the beer down carefully on a coaster on top of the counter. “She pulled some strings and got Benny an agent, a personal trainer, and his first professional MMA match. It'll be in a few months. I was going to text you about it next month."

There's something off about Will's tone, but Santiago brushed it aside as sleepiness, pure elation flooding his body for the youngest member of his family.

“What?! That’s incredible! Good for Benny, man. You must be so damn proud.” Santiago laughed, the pit at the bottom of his stomach finally loosening up a bit. “How’s the training compare to the regimen you had him on? You badgering ‘em to make it harder? Hell, did you get in the ring to spar with Benny a few rounds yourself yet?”

Will’s smile tightens.

“No, I haven’t been invited to the sessions. He moved a few weeks after we came back and we’ve both been busy. He lives nearby, but not in the same area as me anymore.” Will said, his tone bordering on frosty. “Yeah, it’s good news. I’m real happy for him”.

And that, is very, very abnormal. The Miller brothers have always been each other’s best friends, closest confidants, and—if Santiago was honest—two halves to one unit. There was never something that one knew that the other didn’t.

Santiago’s mind flashed back to the mountains, after Tom was killed. When Will blamed Benny. When Benny attacked Will. Catfish and himself had to separate them, but Santiago hadn’t thought much of it—just the same heartbreak felt by all four of them, the Millers, who were always closer to Tom, just took it out on themselves. At least, that’s what Santiago had thought, but before he could ask any further questions Will launched into the ending part of his update.

“Redfly’s family is…as well as can be expected.” Will said lightly, his eyes rising up to the ceiling. “I helped Molly handle his remaining assets and put her in touch with a good financial advisor. After that, she said she never wanted to see any of us again.”

Santiago inhaled a sharp breath. He had expected that. It hurt, but he had expected it.

“You told her everything?”

“Yeah. I made sure that they knew who he was.”

“How’s Tess?”

The question is uttered softly in regards to Tom’s daughter, the light of his life. For a moment, Santiago thought that Will didn’t hear his question, that he will have to build up the courage to ask it again. Luckily, he doesn’t as Will exhales a slow breath. The pit in Santiago’s stomach lurches once again.

“Didn’t look at me again after I told them what happened.” Will’s eyes settled on Santiago across the kitchen counter, sad and heavy. “We’re not the only ones they’re mad at. They’re angry at Tom too…for choosing to do it. It’s hard to be angry at someone beyond the grave, so the blame falls to us.”

He falls quiet for a moment, eyes furrowing.

“And rightfully so”

Santiago refused to let that slide.

“No, no, man. That’s not on you or the guys. It’s on me.” Santiago said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “I convinced him to do it. His death is on me and only me. No one else.”

Will raised an eyebrow, the beginning of a frown beginning to emerge on his face.

“Not just you. I pushed you into doing it.” He said, eyes steady.

“Still my plan. My idea.” Santiago sipped his beer bottle in earnest this time.

“And all of us agreed to it. We all had a choice to make, and we did.”

“And now we’re dealing with the consequences?” Santiago scoffed into his beer bottle, unconvinced.

“We reap what we sow.” Will replied, meeting Santiago’s gaze evenly.

Suddenly, Will’s head tilted as if seeing Santiago for the first time.

“Why are you here, Pope?” Will asked, a genuine note of confusion creeping into his voice for the first time that night.

“You’re just now realizing the tim-“

“No, not the time. I don’t give a shit about that.” Will interrupted. “You’re supposed to be in Australia right now.”

While it was a statement, it sounded almost like an accusation. The mention of Australia stirred that pit in his stomach once again, unease and discomfort lurching inside. Santiago fiddled with the beer, swirling the liquor around in the brown glass bottle. Will watches him, waiting for an answer.

“Yeah. She moved on” Santiago answered tightly, deciding not to take another sip of the beer. “A better man.”

“Doubtful.” Ironhead scoffed, his blue eyes narrowing.

“A good man, then.” Santiago countered

“You’re a good man.” Will said honestly, and the way he says it almost made Santiago’s heart jump because he sounds like he truly believed it. Despite everything he’s seen Pope do, despite everything they’ve been through together, despite everything Pope’s been responsible for…Will still thought of Santiago as a good man.

He still has Will’s respect—a respect that was never freely given, but earned. It’s that knowledge from that gives Santiago the courage to finally bring it up. And if it fails, well, he’ll hold onto the confirmation of that respect for when he’s alone again on the bad nights.

“Not quite…I did come here for a reason.” The words left Santiago’s mouth slowly, like sludge. Will tilted his chin forward slightly, a sign to continue. “I want to go back to get the money, All $250 million.”

This time, Will inhaled a sharp, audible breath. Then, silence.

Santiago can hear the dull buzz of the lightbulb above the kitchen counter, but he doesn’t let it distract him. He’s waiting for Will to meet his eyes. He’s waiting for a response. It took a few minutes, but Will does meet his eyes.

Only this time there’s a hardness that wasn’t there before. A steely glint. And that’s when Santiago knew it’s not Will he’s speaking to anymore, but Ironhead. When Will’s quiet confidence turned to cold, effective calculation. When his struggles with his PTSD became weaponized, his anger turning cool instead of hot. And as Santiago’s lips thin, his own eyes narrowing and his mind becoming sharper, aware, and ready—he became Pope. More soldier than human. The friendly atmosphere that was originally in the room, anchored by mutual fondness and friendship happiness dissolves in the air at the mention of a plan that had gotten one of their best friends killed.

“What?” Ironhead grounded out, voice pitched low.

Pope doesn’t back down.

“You heard me. I wanna go back for the $250 million.” He responded evenly, eyes watching the storm on Ironhead’s face.

And Ironhead’s expression is truly terrible. So terrible that the rest of the words poured out from Pope’s mouth before Ironhead has the chance to speak again—with words that would possibly cut Pope out from his life forever.

“Different rules of engagement this time. No killing. We’d just be retrieving the money and smuggling it back here. No team either, just you and me.” Pope explained quickly, scanning for any change on Will’s face

Will’s expression was still stormy but his eyes are furrowed instead of narrowed. It’s something and Pope understood it as an indication to continue.

“It’d be a few days. Since it’d just be the two of us, no Catfish, no Benny, we’d be more mobile and keep better under the radar.” Pope cocked his head, preparing to deliver the final blow. “You said it yourself…maybe one day we can do some good with it one day. Catfish is still struggling, Benny could use the money to invest in the best trainers, and we both could definitely use it too. It’s been long enough. Let’s do it. ”

The tension seemed to deflate from Ironhead’s face like a punctured balloon, hands coming up to rub against his eyes blearily. When he removed them, Will’s tired face is there again, not Ironhead.

“It’s late.” Will sighed. “Can we talk about this in the morning?”

Santiago knew a peace offering when he sees one and nodded his head.

“Of course,” Santiago dumped his beer bottle in the nearby recycling can, his feet already propelling him across the carpet to his shoes. “What time were you thi—“

“Where are you going?” Will interrupted, a bemused look on his face.

“I’m leaving…?” Santiago answered, confusion tinging his voice. Did he miss something else that Will had said?

“Do you have a place to stay?” It’s a question, but not really. It’s asked like Will already knew the answer.

“No, but I can just get a hot—“

“Nah man, just crash here.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I need a bed.” Santiago chuckled, stretching out his knees carefully. “My knees can’t really handle crashing on a couch anymore.”

Will looked at him like he’s being particularly obtuse, that slight frown tugging at his lips and disapproval in his eyes. That damn look.

“Just take my bed.” Will said, the eyeroll not on his face very clear in his voice. Santiago’s reaction is instantaneous.

“Dude, no. I’m not gonna put you out in your own house.” Santiago argued. “I’ll just get a hotel room, it’ll take—“

“Too long.” Will interrupted again, a nasty habit he tended to do whenever he believed he was right about something. Which he usually was. “And I have work tomorrow so if you want to actually sell me on this, you'll have to catch me before I’m off. You can’t really do that at a hotel if you’re crashing at a hotel.”

Will was right, of course. He’s almost always right about these type of things, which pissed Santiago off to no end. Maybe it was that old stubbornness, that pride his mother accused him of having, rearing its head because Santiago kept his hands firmly in his pockets, not moving away from his boots.

“I don’t know, Ironhead. I really don’t want to put you out.” Santiago repeated himself, his eyes furrowed and lips pressed into a frown. “I’ll just take the couch then, I should be able to handl—

“I’ll take the couch. You’ll take my bed.” Ironhead’s tone brokered no argument. Then, his face softened as his shoulder slumped up in a half shrug. “I usually sleep on the couch anyways. It’s easier to sleep with the noise.”

He paused, as if considering something.

“There’s no T.V. in my room.”

He jerked his head towards his bedroom door.

“Come on.” Without waiting for Santiago to follow him, Will padded over to open the door to his bedroom.

* * *

So, that’s how Santiago found himself comfortably draped in a very thick comforter in Will’s icy cold room (Santiago really needed to have a conversation about Will claims of always being cold if he brought it on himself) on a fluffy, lumbar-supported king bed that smells of cedarwood and peppercorn.

Outside of the room, Santiago can just hear the faint noise of random conversations and voices on the television where Will is wrapped in another comforter and a blanket.

Santiago still doesn’t know how. If he wasn’t wearing just his boxers right now, he’d be sweating. Eyes drooping shut, Santiago leaned his head back into the pillow and inhaled Will’s scent, his thoughts finally beginning to slow down.

Santiago has never been in love with a man before. He’s never loved a man beyond sex, not a gay man, not a bisexual man, and definitely not a straight man, especially one that was off-limits. But in this moment, Santiago’s final thought is of smiling blue eyes and a crinkled smile. God, he could hear his mother’s voice now.

 _Sin vergüenza_.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I put Triple Frontier in the Rocky Balboa universe—sue me. 
> 
> Well, that's the first chapter! If anyone would be interested in beta'ing in this fic, please feel free to reach out. I have about 15 chapters planned out for this story and aim to finish by end of August, so any help getting to that goal would be greatly appreciated :D. The rating is expected to go up when things get heated, but for the first few chapters it'll be PG-13 ;). 
> 
> As always, any comments and constructive feedback is immensely appreciated and very welcome :). I hope y'all enjoyed and more will be on the way soon.


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